


Special Delivery

by emluv



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. Spoilers, Birthday Presents, Captain America: The Winter Soldier Spoilers, Cuddling & Snuggling, Friendship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-13
Updated: 2014-07-13
Packaged: 2018-02-08 15:42:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1946790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emluv/pseuds/emluv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being the newly minted director of SHIELD comes with a lot of headaches and complications, so Phil Coulson can be excused for forgetting it's his birthday, especially when there's not that much to celebrate. Melinda May, however, disagrees, and she's going to make sure her boss finds a little joy on his special day. More or less.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Special Delivery

**Author's Note:**

> This was intended to be a quick, short, fun little stand-alone in honor of Coulson's 50th birthday on July 8th. As you can see, it got away from me. Better late than never. It's an appropriate theme.

Phil Coulson stares at the map of Hydra-controlled SHIELD bases winking back from his laptop, willing it to change. It doesn’t seem possible that after nearly three months of rescue missions, sneak attacks, and frontal assaults there could still be so many of those damned red logos in play, but there they are, taunting him. Somehow he needs to come up with more people, more resources, more of _everything_. It would be particularly helpful if he could stop the clock while he accomplishes all of the above. He forever feels like he’s running to catch up with a shifting target.

 

Elbows resting on the edge of the desk, he rubs at his eyes and indulges himself with a long-suffering sigh. “‘Take your time,’ he said. ‘Rebuild from the ground up. Do it right.’ As if we didn’t need to be fully operational ten minutes after the shit hit the fan,” he mutters.

 

He’s not unaware of Agent May’s approach. She’s stealthy, but she’s not Agent Romanoff and, if he’s honest, he knows she’s not exactly putting in the effort. Still, he is somewhat surprised when a hand reaches past his face and places a frosted cupcake, complete with lit candle, on the desk in front of him. He blinks and sits back, glancing over at her.

 

May shrugs. “Day’s almost over. I figured you wouldn’t want a big fuss, but still, I didn’t want it to go unacknowledged.”

 

Phil stares back down at the cupcake for a moment, then lets his eyes flick up to the laptop screen, specifically to the upper right hand corner where the date displayed reads July 8, 2014. Huh.

 

“Don’t tell me you forgot? I know it’s been crazy around here, but come on, Phil. You only turn fifty once.”

 

“Just between us, I could have stood to wait a few more years.”

 

“Beats the alternative,” she points out.

 

“Yes, I’m aware. Painfully aware, as a matter of fact,” he says, turning his swivel chair to face her where she stands, hip propped against the edge of his desk. She has the grace to look at least moderately chagrined, not that most people would be able to tell. “So, what? Should I make a wish? You know, given the year I’ve had, a little booze wouldn’t have been out of line.”

 

“If we’re measuring by the year, you deserve way more than _a little_ booze,” she says. “Just blow out the candle and enjoy your sugar rush. I’m sorry it’s not much. I did actually try ordering you something a bit more substantial, but obviously it hasn’t arrived in time.”

 

He arches an eyebrow. “I wasn’t aware UPS delivered to the Playground.” When she rolls her eyes, he cracks a faint smile. “Thanks, Mel.” Then he takes a shallow breath, leans in and wishes before releasing a firm puff of air. The candle flickers and for an instant he thinks she’s managed to find one of those stupid trick candles, but then the flame sputters out, a faint tendril of smoke wafting above it.

 

May drops a napkin and a bottle of water on one of the few empty spots on his desk and gives him a mock salute. “Happy birthday, Director. Don’t work all night.”

 

“I won’t. Thanks again for thinking of me.”

 

“You’re welcome.” She turns and leaves him alone in his office.

 

Phil tugs the candle out of the cupcake and carefully licks the frosting off the end. It’s been a few years since he’s celebrated a birthday. Hell, he doesn’t even _remember_ the last couple. Not that he’s ever been the type to throw elaborate parties or do anything crazy, even when he was younger. Even if it were his style, he spends the day off somewhere on a mission as often as not. He turned forty-seven in New Mexico and… yeah, not going to think about that one. The year before he remembers going out with a few people from work, for Brazilian food and too many rum-based cocktails, but if he thinks about that too long he’ll remember that Jasper picked the restaurant and yeah, not going there, either. Everything’s a mind field these days. Still, when you unexpectedly get a second chance at life, he supposes it’s more important to take the time out to be thankful.

 

He peels back the cupcake wrapper, revealing yellow cake beneath the chocolate frosting, and smiles, wondering where Melinda managed to find it. The Playground’s kitchen has a decent stock of supplies, but while they’re a couple notches above mission rations, they do fall pretty much entirely in the necessary nutrition categories. The closest he’s spotted to a treat was some off-brand granola.

 

Phil savors the little cake, taking small bites and licking his lips in between to make sure he doesn’t miss any of the frosting. It’s good. Fresh, not too sweet. He’s sad when he’s down to the last crumbs.

 

Glancing back up at the menacing map on his computer, he shakes his head and shuts down. It’s his birthday. He can call it a night a little early for once.

 

The halls are silent, lights dimmed in evening conservation mode per his own orders, as a measure to help reduce costs. That’s another thing Fury neglected to mention when he dropped the whole messy parcel in Phil’s lap; running a secret government organization is damned expensive, especially once you remove the government from the equation. But that’s one more problem he decides to ignore for the rest of his birthday. It shouldn’t be too difficult; it’s nearly midnight.

 

In his room, he changes into a t-shirt and old SHIELD workout pants, washes up, and crawls into bed. He knows there’s no way he’ll sleep right away and he’s learned over the past month that it’s better not to try. Instead he fluffs up his pillows and grabs his tablet, and tries to lose himself in the comfortable familiarity of _The Fellowship of the Ring_.

 

~*~

 

He must have fallen asleep, because he wakes quite abruptly to the sound of the perimeter alarm, though it’s not nearly as painful as it might have been since he’s insisted they replace the klaxons with something far less ear-splitting. The clock reads just past three a.m. Setting aside the tablet from where it’s resting on his stomach, Phil pushes back the covers, grabs his side arm, and heads for the entrance. They’ve protocols in place now that the Playground’s a bit more inhabited, so only a few other people stagger out of bed to greet their latest visitor – Koenig, of course, Melinda, and Trip, along with Phil. Trip looks vaguely irritated while Melinda is her usual bland self. Koenig, as always, is far too chipper, and Phil can’t help but feel that his own annoyance at Billy’s excitement is exacerbated by the hour.

 

Then the door slides open revealing Clint Barton, hair bleached nearly blond, skin tanned to leather, and a sag in his stance that says he’s worn to the bone. Phil’s vaguely aware of Billy launching into his standard speech, and he thinks he hears Melinda telling him something, yet all he can do is stare. Clint’s staring back, his eyes so very blue in his sun-dark face, but despite the fact that he’s drinking Phil in from head to toe, he doesn’t look particularly surprised to see him alive.

 

Finally Clint moves, taking a few staggering steps into the compound, just enough to allow the door to shut behind him, and to bring him within arm’s length of Phil. He flashes a too-quick smile, a little brittle, a touch nervous. “Sorry I’m late,” he says in a voice that sounds unused. “Happy birthday, boss.”

 

Phil thinks his mouth must be gaping open. “Thank you,” he manages. Then Clint’s precise words sink in and, much as he’s loathe to lose sight of him, he tears his gaze away just long enough to shoot Mel a disbelieving look. “ _This_ is what you meant when you said you ordered something for my birthday?”

 

She tilts her head in acknowledgement. “I might have contacted Fury and told him to stop making your life harder than it needs to be,” she says.

 

He closes his eyes for an instant and shakes his head. That, at least, explains why Clint expected to see him alive, though of course he still has no idea how much Nick decided he was willing to share. When he opens his eyes again, he sees Trip is now propped up against the wall, half asleep. Billy, however, looks ready to hook Clint up for his lie-detector test, and that just isn’t going to happen.

 

“Everyone back to bed,” he declares, holding up a hand to stop Koenig’s automatic protest. “I will personally vouch for Agent Barton,” he continues. “You can worry about the rest tomorrow. _Late_ tomorrow.”

 

Trip has already waved his good-night and headed off down the hall. Melinda gives Phil a little nod, smirks at Barton, who returns it in kind, and follows Antoine. Billy still looks like he wants to lodge a complaint at the careless disregard for his procedures, but he’s finally started to realize that Coulson is actually in charge now. He gives a reluctant nod and heads after the others.

 

Phil finally turns back to Clint. “Hi,” he says. “You look like you could sleep for a year.” It’s not really what he wants to say, but it’s the simplest of the options at the moment.

 

“Well, maybe not a year, but horizontal sounds pretty good.” Clint hefts his bag more securely over his shoulder and it’s only then Phil realizes he’s got a second duffel as well.

 

“Here, give me one of those,” he says, holding out his hand.

 

Clint passes it over without an argument, but he looks a little hesitant. “So, um, where should I bunk down?”

 

Phil shoots him a confused look, then feels his heart sink. “Oh. Um, I assumed in with me,” he admits quietly. “But if you’d rather not—”

 

“No, no, that’s good,” Clint says quickly. “I just didn’t want to… You know. It’s been a while.”

 

Relief floods through Phil, followed swiftly by guilt. “I know. I’m sorry. I don’t know how much Nick told you, but I—”

 

“Phil,” Clint breaks in softly. “It’s okay. We can talk about it tomorrow. Or, I guess later,” he adds with a weak smile.

 

Phil nods. “Come on.”

 

They trail quietly down the hall to Phil’s room, and for the first time he’s glad for the extra space afforded him as director, especially the queen-sized bed that’s felt so very wide and empty the past few weeks. Clint takes everything in at a glance, eyes darting to the few items of Phil’s collection that have migrated to this room before he retrieves his second bag from Phil and drops it up against the wall, along with the one he was carrying, where they won’t trip over them. Crouching down, he opens the smaller duffel and rummages around for a minute, pulling out a bottle of vodka.

 

“From Nat,” he says, handing it to Phil. “She wanted to come, too, but she’s in the middle of something for Fury. I’m supposed to tell you to save a little because you’re going to need it once she comes and beats the crap out of you.”

 

“I’m sure she didn’t put it quite so politely,” Phil snorts, hefting the bottle with its Russian lettering before setting it carefully on top of his dresser.

 

“Nah, well, you can use your imagination. I doubt you’ll be far off.” He returns to his duffel, unzipping another pocket, and draws out a brown paper bag. “These are from me,” he says, peering in and making a face before giving the bag to Phil. “Sorry. I think they got a little squished.”

 

Phil peeks in and grins at the two packages of convenience-store donuts, one chocolate and one powdered sugar. “You brought breakfast,” he says. He takes both packages out and sets them gingerly beside the vodka. “Thank you.”

 

“Sure.”

 

When Phil turns, Clint stands clutching a shirt and shorts to his chest, looking like he might just fall over. “Did you want a shower or something? Don’t feel like you need to if you’re too tired. I don’t care.”

 

A weary smile passes over his face. “I think _I’d_ mind. Bathroom?” he asks, pointing at a door.

 

“Yeah, go ahead. Towels under the sink. Help yourself to whatever.”

 

He nods his thanks and disappears into the small room.

 

Phil sinks down on the edge of the bed as the bathroom door closes. He feels a sudden rush of tension flowing out of him – Nerves? Fear? – and its absence leaves him trembling to the point where he’s forced to sit on his hands to control the shaking.

 

Clint is here. Clint knows he’s alive, that Fury lied, that Phil _himself_ essentially lied by continuing to uphold the ruse. He knows, and yet he came.

 

Phil dreamed of this moment plenty of times over the last year, imagined all the ways he might possibly come face to face with Clint again. Generally the scenarios involved hurt looks, a great deal of yelling, and possibly physical violence, but not once did he think there would be cheap donuts and vodka and bed-sharing within minutes of seeing each other again. 

 

He’s still sitting there when the water shuts off, and he becomes conscious of how pathetic he must look, trembling on the edge of the bed. He rises, shakes out his hands, pleased to find them mostly steady, and sets about smoothing out the covers and making the room presentable for a guest. Somewhat belatedly, it occurs to him Clint is likely dehydrated and possibly also hungry despite the hour, though he feels at least partly justified in the oversight, given Barton’s abrupt appearance. He darts back out into the dim hall and heads down to the darkened kitchen, returning just as the bathroom door opens and Clint emerges in a puff of steam, dressed for bed, his damp hair tousled and his cheeks pink. 

 

“Pretty sure you need this,” Phil tells him, tossing over a bottle of water. “And I grabbed some fruit and crackers if you’re hungry,” he adds, setting the items on the dresser.

 

Clint cracks the water bottle open with a nod and drinks deeply, polishing off about half the bottle before capping it. “Thanks,” he says.

 

And suddenly it’s beyond awkward, the two of them standing there in the pale light in their night clothes as if they hadn’t shared a bed hundreds of times over the past decade, between ops and more intimate encounters. Though it’s the latter, of course, that causes the strain.

 

Clint glances over at the remade bed and rubs his palm over the back of his neck. “Listen, if this is too weird, I can sleep anywhere.”

 

“No, of course not,” Phil says. “It’s just… been a while. Like you said before.”

 

He moves purposefully toward his usual side of the bed, relieved when the action seems to unfreeze Clint as well. They each climb in, Phil automatically folding down the light blanket that he was using earlier, aware of how much heat Clint generates, and wow, he thinks as he shifts to get comfortable, if those are the thoughts running through his head, he’s never going to fall asleep, is he?

 

Clint seems equally restless, carefully keeping to his side of the mattress and settling with his back to Phil. “Good night,” he says softly.

 

“Good night.” Phil reaches over and turns off the bedside light, plunging them into darkness mitigated only by the various lights associated with electronics in the room.

 

Silence sits heavily over them. Phil can feel Clint’s steady easy breathing just a hand’s width away, knows he’s still awake, though he’s melted pretty thoroughly into the bed, a sure sign of exhaustion. Normally that would drag him right under, and Phil feels almost guilty for not giving him his own room from the start, knowing he’s the reason Clint hasn’t dropped off already.

 

“Stop thinking so loud,” Clint mumbles. “I can hear all the gears turning in your head.”

 

“Sorry.” Phil pushes himself up in the dark so he’s leaning against the headboard. “I know you said we’d talk later but… why aren’t you angry? How can you lie there so calmly after more than two years and…” He sighs heavily and rubs his eyes. He hasn’t been sleeping enough. It’s late. Clint’s tired. He should shut up and go to sleep. He hopes Clint will just ignore him and go to sleep.

 

Except he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t, not with Phil pushing at him for answers. He shifts until he’s sitting beside Phil, no more than a silhouette in the night. “I was angry,” he says after a few quiet moments. “When Fury sat me down and told me you were alive, that they’d taken extreme measures, and you spent a year in recovery and it was touch and go the entire time, I was furious,” he admits. “But mostly I was furious at him, for putting you through that, for making you suffer it alone, without any of your friends to support you.

 

“I understood the initial lie,” he says, and Phil feels him shrug, their shoulders barely brushing. “I’ve been with SHIELD a long time. I get how it works. Little late to complain now. But the rest of it, to maintain the pretense for all that time, that was too much. We had a right to know you’d made it, at least after the fact. The Avengers, too, but especially me and Natasha.”

 

“And you weren’t angry that I kept the lie going, as well? That I went along with it?”

 

“Sure. More hurt, though.”

 

“I’m sorry, Clint. So, so sorry. I just… Nick was adamant about keeping you all in the dark. And it had been more than a year by the time I was really conscious and functioning. You’d mourned and moved on. It seemed… cruel to show up and throw your life into chaos. Especially since I knew we weren’t going to be working together. And I suppose… You and I were on and off for so long, really only together the last few months, and even then, we barely saw each other.”

 

Clint let out a shuddering breath. “I do know you, remember? I know work comes first, it always did. You follow orders, it’s who you are. Plus I figured there was some self-sacrificing bullshit in the mix.”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

He shifts and suddenly Phil can see his eyes piercing him out of the dark. “We were on and off all those years because you never trusted in how I felt about you. Something would scare you and you’d put on the brakes, convinced I was better off without you. And I knew there was no changing your mind when you were like that, so I’d just hang around and bide my time and wait for you to remember how much fun we had together and realize that you missed me.”

 

Phil blinks. “No, it wasn’t like that.”

 

“Damn it, Phil, don’t tell me it wasn’t. It was! You are this brilliant badass agent and handler, you’ve always got the junior agents cowering in your wake, and I imagine reincarnation has really sealed up your rep with the senior agents, too, what’s left of them, but you refuse to see yourself as a catch. So I’m going to tell you this now, and you can write it off to long-term brain damage or something if you want, but you still have to listen to me.”

 

When Clint pauses, Phil nods. “Okay,” he says, almost scared of what he might hear, but at this point he’ll do anything Clint asks.

 

“You are without a doubt the best man I know. I don’t mean you’re perfect, because even I know that’s not possible. But you are good and kind and so, so smart. You strive to live up to the ideas in your head, even in this job that shows you the very worst the world is capable of nearly every day. You are tough but fair, devoted and principled and loyal, and you bring out the best in the people who work for you because they know you demand nothing less of yourself than you ask of them.

 

“And then you have this sweet, goofy, fun-loving side that hardly anyone ever sees. You’re the guy who scours flea markets and second-hand stores for weird old shit, and who loves five star restaurants and still eats gas station donuts, who can tangle with aliens in the desert and still happily read the latest science fiction novel before bed, and who still sometimes practices coin tricks in front of the bathroom mirror. But you share that side of yourself with me, for which I will always be so grateful.”

 

“Clint…” he whispers, as the other man’s voice breaks.

 

“No, just let me finish, all right?” He lets out a shuddering breath. “When I heard you died, it nearly broke me. Not because I felt responsible, though I did, and not because I couldn’t live without you, though I did wonder for a while. But because since I joined SHIELD you have been the one person I could look to when I had doubts, the person I trusted to always steer me true, and I didn’t know if I could be the person you made me without you there to keep me in line.”

 

“Oh, Clint, that wasn’t me,” Phil says, grabbing his hand and squeezing it. “I didn’t do anything but give you the space and the trust you needed to become the person you were always meant to be. The skills, the heart, the hard work and dedication… those were always inside you.”

 

“Don’t you get it, Phil? There’s no only about what you did for me. You believed in me. Not just my aim or my arm, but me, as a person with a brain in my head and maybe even a chance of learning how to use it. That faith… it’s my foundation. _You’re_ my foundation.”

 

“If you start to sing ‘Wind Beneath My Wings’, Barton, I will kick you out of this bed,” Phil says, but he tips his head so their foreheads touch, and he knows Clint understands how moved he is.

 

“I can’t be angry with you for pretending to be dead,” Clint says, “because I’m just too damn busy being happy you’re alive. Okay?”

 

“Okay. And for the record, you standing in that doorway earlier was the best birthday present I’ve ever received.”

 

“I bet I can improve on it. Can I kiss you now?”

 

“Oh yes, please,” he breathes out.

 

It’s surprisingly gentle to start, a press of lips, adjusting angles, relearning the shapes of each other’s mouths. But then Clint nips lightly, and Phil’s lips part, and the kiss grows deeper, more desperate. Arms reach and encircle and hold so, so tightly until finally they break apart for air.

 

“I missed you so much. I was so worried about you, and all year my team kept getting sent all over, and each time I hoped our paths would cross,” Phil admits, “but they never did. And then this whole mess started and I was scared you’d gotten caught out somewhere.”

 

Clint bussed his cheek and tugged him so they were settled flat on the bed again, still tangled in each other’s arms. “It was close,” he admits. “Nat sent me an encrypted message but I only got it like ten minutes before everything started going belly up. It was enough to ditch my cover and go to ground, but it took a while to find a safe extraction.”

 

“Where were you?”

 

“Syria.”

 

Phil groans and tugs him closer. “I don’t want to know right now.”

 

“No arguments here.” Clint breaks off with an enormous yawn.

 

“How long have you been awake?” Phil asks.

 

“Search me. Lost track between all the time zones.” He nuzzles his head down into the space between Phil’s neck and shoulder. “I really do need to sleep, boss. I promise all the rest of the answers later.”

 

“It’s fine,” Phil says, kissing the top of his head where his hair is still faintly damp. “I’ve got the ones I really needed. Most of them, at least.”

 

Clint hums quietly. “Love you,” he says, snuggling in a little closer.

 

A small smile curves Phil’s lips. And there’s the rest, he thinks. “I love you, too.”

 

END 


End file.
